


Mutiny at the A.B.C. Press

by astrid_fischer



Series: 'le révolutionnaire', an a.b.c. press publication [11]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Multi, Newspaper AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrid_fischer/pseuds/astrid_fischer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The atmosphere in the office is tense and exhausted, nerves frayed from the argument going on in the center of the room: clipped words and snapped accusations and snarky retorts, and it’s been going on, to one degree or another, all fucking day (and since it’s just past four and they’ve been up since six, that’s saying something).</p>
<p>And for once, it’s not Enjolras and Grantaire in the middle of it.</p>
<p>*****</p>
<p>In which everyone's just moved back into the sort-of-repaired press office, there’s an argument about slander (or is it libel?) and the mob, a lot of things are said, and someone’s name is stricken off the masthead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutiny at the A.B.C. Press

**Author's Note:**

> howdy y'alls, this takes place sometime irrelevant after 'up in smoke' -- it was kindly pointed out to me that it's possible to reshuffle the order of a series, and i am most definitely going to look into that, thank you! for now, though, things will remain non-deliberately mysterious. any questions, regarding the timeline or cake or anything you please, you can come drop me an ask on tumblr @archangelruind!

The atmosphere in the office is tense and exhausted, nerves frayed from the argument going on in the center of the room: clipped words and snapped accusations and snarky retorts, and it’s been going on, to one degree or another, _all fucking day_ (and since it’s just past four and they’ve been up since six, that’s saying something).

And for once, it’s not Enjolras and Grantaire in the middle of it.

“You aren’t even listening to me,” Eponine says. She sounds tired and angry.

“Of course I’m listening to you,” Enjolras replies. “That doesn’t mean my opinion on the matter is going to change.”

They’re standing by the copy desk, Enjolras with his head bowed over the various marked-up pages as he initials the corrections and Eponine standing next to him, arms crossed over her chest.

Eponine’s voice is razor-sharp. “So, you _do_ see the utter fucking irony in publishing an article about a prominent politician using possible shady mob connections against anyone who speaks out against him, and you’re just what, choosing to ignore it?”

Grantaire is sitting back in his chair with his feet up on the desk, wearing his fleece-lined denim jacket indoors because the windows still haven’t been fixed from the fire and so it’s only the Plexiglas taped to the empty frames separating them from the mid-March chill outside.

Enjolras’ hair is beginning to look dandelionish because of how many times he’s run frustrated fingers through it, and Eponine’s got her own hair scraped back in a messy bun and no makeup on (which makes her look no less beautiful, somehow, if perhaps a bit more fragile). There are dark circles like bruises under her eyes.

Eponine doesn’t want them to run the latest cover story; a blistering critique of France’s new Prime Minister, Louis Philippe. His election had been surrounded by rumors of bribery and corruption and backdoor deals, and to say that his mob connections are _possible_ is being generous. Enjolras’ article absolutely eviscerated him in print.

“Horse heads in our beds aside, we could get sued for slander,” Eponine says. “Did you even consider that?”

“Libel,” Jehan corrects from underneath the corner desk where, inexplicably, he’s lying on the hardwood floor to write. Courfeyrac is sitting next to him, eating Jehan’s untouched sandwich (because Jehan often buys food and then gets occupied with something else and forgets to eat it).

“It’s not libel if it’s true,” is Enjolras’ reply. The look on Eponine’s face suggests she wants very much to smack him.

To be fair, it’s not at all likely that Louis Philippe will ever even _see_ the article, because _Le Révolutionnaire_ is an indie newspaper written by ex-students, with a circulation count in the low thousands on a good week. But they’ve been getting noticed by blogs and larger publications lately and that means there’s a chance. That means it’s dangerous.

And of course, Enjolras doesn’t care that it’s dangerous. If it’s dangerous, it means they’re doing something right.

“We go to press in an hour,” he tells Eponine, and his voice is perfectly level. He turns his back, and that’s as good as slamming a door in her face.

The argument is making Grantaire miserably aware of how sober he is, and the press’ shitty black coffee is a poor substitute. “Aspirin?” he mouths to Joly, across the way, who rummages in his desk drawer for a moment before tossing a travel-size bottle of painkillers across the aisle.

Combeferre touches Eponine on the shoulder, but she shrugs him off. She’s staring hard at Enjolras, who has given no sign that he’s even realized she’s still there except for the obvious tension running through his frame.

Grantaire sees Eponine’s shoulders set, recognizes that she’s steeling herself for something. After a moment she says quietly, “Take my name off it.”

The editor glances up, resting one hand on the table. “What?” he asks, irritation plain in his voice. And this is so surreal, somehow, Grantaire thinks from his desk, because normally _Grantaire’s_ the one he’s talking to like this, not Eponine. Enjolras and Eponine don’t fight.

“Take my name. Off. The issue,” she repeats, enunciating each syllable. “I don’t agree with this and I don’t want any part in it.”

The press is suddenly very quiet.

Grantaire is struck dumb. He’s not the only one, either—across the office Bossuet’s eyes are as big as dinner plates and even Courfeyrac has gone uncharacteristically silent.

Eponine’s been with the press nearly as long as Combeferre has. _Eponine Thénardier – Copy Editor_ is printed fourth on the masthead. There has never been an issue of _Le Révolutionnaire_ without her name on it.

No one else in the office says anything. Grantaire guesses they don’t know what to say.

Enjolras straightens up. “Eponine, if the accusations about Philippe are true, it is crucial that the public knows about it. We have spent weeks substantiating Senator Lamarque’s charges against him, and it would be irresponsible, not to mention _reprehensible_ , to cover it up.” It’s the same thing he’s been saying all day, more or less.

“Don’t condescend to me,” she says.

He rakes a hand through his blonde hair for the hundredth time, letting some of his frustration show, but only for a second before he schools his expression back into impassivity. “I’m not _trying_ to. I’m just trying to get you to see how important this is.”

“Not more important than our safety,” Eponine says. She shakes her head. “Not to me.”

Everyone can hear the implication in her words, even if she doesn’t say it straight out.

Enjolras hears it too, and his jaw sets. He shrugs one shoulder with just enough indifference for it to be awful. “Of course I’ll remove your name if you want me to. I wouldn’t put anyone at risk,” and he says ‘at risk’ with a slight mocking emphasis, “without their consent.”

Eponine laughs at that, and Enjolras waits with one eyebrow raised as if to ask politely, “Oh?” and Grantaire guesses he’s not alone in wanting to jump out the window to get away before anything else is said.

She just shakes her head again, but the editor says levelly, “If you have something to say, then say it.”

“Their _consent_ ,” Eponine echoes, as if it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Like it would even be possible not to give it.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means that I’m probably the least-idealistic person here, and it is still killing me to do this because I know I’m disappointing you,” she replies, and her eyes are suspiciously bright now. “Not the press, _you._ Because you make it impossible not to want to stand with you, even when you’re being an _idiot_.”

“Everyone in this office has chosen to be here,” Enjolras says. Some people get more agitated when they’re angry, all frenetic movement and pacing. Enjolras goes very still instead. “I haven’t made them do anything.”

“You don’t have to,” she says. “All you’ve ever had to do is ask.”

“ _Ask_ , not order. There’s a difference.”

“Not with you, there isn’t.”

Jehan is chewing on his fingernails, and Courfeyrac takes his hand to make him stop but he’s avoiding looking at Enjolras. Bossuet is doing a terrible job of fake-typing. Bahorel makes a sound almost like a snort from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor by the file cabinet, going through their old tax forms.

It’s everything that any of them has ever wanted to say to Enjolras, really. That they love him, and they’re happy to follow him, because they believe in the same ideals as he does (or at least, most of them do), but that he makes it hard sometimes.

That just because _he_ isn’t scared of things doesn’t mean they hadn’t all had their moments this past week where they’d asked themselves why they were doing this. And invariably the answer had come back to caring about the press, but it had also come back to Enjolras himself.

But no matter if she’s right or not, it’s still pretty brutal to hear it said out loud.

The expression which flickers across’ the blonde man’s face suggests she might have struck him, after all. “This is completely ridiculous,” he says after a weighted pause. “It’s a newspaper article, not a firing squad.”

“It’s still a risk, and you know it.”

“I never denied it.” He holds her gaze. “I didn’t make this decision lightly. Some things are worth the risk.”

“Well then I guess I don’t think they’re worth what you’re risking.”

It’s another long, painful moment of silence before he clears his throat and asks, “You want your name removed from the masthead?” He sifts through the mass of papers laid out on the copy desk and finds the front page mockup.

He pulls off the cap of a red pen with his teeth and makes a quick, vicious slash through Eponine’s name. “There,” he says, with quiet contempt plain in his voice. “It’s gone. Anyone else?”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, and Eponine still doesn’t flinch but Grantaire can see her hands trembling. Flippant or not, cynical or not, Eponine is loyal as all hell and this is hurting her.

Enjolras ignores Combeferre’s quiet admonishment. He turns to the room at large and raises his voice slightly to say, “Anyone who doesn’t want to be involved with this publication, that is entirely in your right. You’re here of your own free will.”

Marius looks stunned. He and Cosette are sitting on the edge of Feuilly’s desk, separate from the argument because they’re not technically part of the press (although Marius is one of the main financial backers of the whole enterprise after the fire, despite his grandfather’s vehement protests) but at the same time just as involved in it as anyone because Enjolras and Eponine are their friends too.

Grantaire, meanwhile, is torn. Because on the one hand, he agrees with Eponine wholeheartedly. Running this article is dangerous, even if it’s _right_ , and personal well-being has always ranked above justice in his book. By, well, a lot.

But on the other hand, there’s Enjolras. Of course Enjolras is going to run this issue. This is what Enjolras was born to do.

And of course, when it comes down to it, Grantaire is going to stick with him (because if he were being melodramatic—or if he’d had a few drinks—he’d say that’s what _he_ was born to do).

“I’ll be in tomorrow,” Eponine tells Enjolras.

“Whatever you like,” he says. He’s already turned his attention back to the papers arranged in front of him.

Eponine leans forward to press her lips briefly to his cheek. The blonde man doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t look at her either. Eponine doesn’t mean this decision as a betrayal, but Enjolras’ world doesn’t admit shades of gray.

Eponine just shakes her head, looking even more exhausted, goes back to her desk and starts collecting her things. She shoves her laptop into her bag and shrugs on her old leather jacket, movements jerky with anger or hurt or some combination of the two, and everyone is looking at each other in upset bewilderment because _what the hell just happened_?

Cosette only hesitates for a moment before murmuring something to Marius and sliding off Feuilly’s desk to follow Eponine out the door. They can hear her call Eponine’s name, her heels clicking on the warped wood of the stairs.

“Would you like me to remove your name as well?” Enjolras asks Grantaire, startling him out of his thoughts. He stares at Enjolras in surprise, trying to tamp down on the hurt those casually vicious words inspire. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies with a crooked smile.

“Don’t stay on my account,” the editor says, and Grantaire almost wants to laugh aloud at that, to laugh and say back _but I do everything on your account._

“I’m staying,” Grantaire says (because in the end it’s not a choice, not really).

And Enjolras only nods once, and goes back to what he was doing, but Grantaire knows he’s not imagining the way the tense set of his shoulders relaxes ever so slightly.


End file.
